


The hunter

by Spookywanluke



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Camp Nanowrimo, Character Death, Gen, M/M, sort of.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spookywanluke/pseuds/Spookywanluke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as part of Camp NaNo July, Day 15, while sick as a dog.</p><p>5 Times John realises there's something a little different about Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gifts of the strangest kind

**Author's Note:**

> None of this has had a beta-stick waved around, please feel free in the comments.  
> I also refuse to believe season three ever happened so don't feel worried about the story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any other reason I can’t figure, unless he’s suddenly a bower bird.

1\. _There's no escaping from her mysteries, She gives me kisses of the strangest kind_

 

It wasn’t often that it would happen, but they were always occasions that were memorable, if only for how odd it was compared.

Usually I would wake up to a great blue-grey raven…*cough* Sherlock perched on the end of my bed, looking all the world like an anxious kid wanting parental approval. Most times it would be to hurry me up so we can go to a crime scene, but on these rare occasions I have taken to thinking of as gift-days, he’s holding onto an object (in one occasion balancing on) of said odd nature, which as soon as he’s certain I’m awake he extends it into my hands and flashes out of the door like he was never there.

I learnt the hard way never to talk about the gifts as he’ll go onto a week-long sulk, finally remembering that I exist when an interesting case perks his attention. Doughnuts, shovels, balancing pads, long-life milk even an international tea I can’t pronounce has made it into the collection (I endured the silence for that one, the tea was delicious) I have to believe this is way of showing his appreciation for my existence in his life, any other reason I can’t figure, unless he’s suddenly a bower bird.

To make up for it though, on days after I’m more likely to amendable to his demands so I think it works for the two of us.


	2. Lightning in the look in your eyes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normally I’m the patient, calm one out the two of us at a crime scene.

_2\. I've seen your deepest secrets, son. They're just as lightning In the look of your eyes._

The first time I remember it happening, I was cold, hungry (Sherlock had pulled me from work without lunch or sleep) and very tired. I was truly grumpy and all around picked up on my vibe. Well, all except for Anderson.

Normally I’m the patient, calm one out the two of us at a crime scene, I patch up as best I can all the rough edges Sherlock creates with abrasive attitude and statements. Just this time I was well beyond my tolerance for humanity and I snapped.

Anderson had been sniping behind Sherlock’s back ferociously, calling him everything from a liar to a con-artist and when he finally ended up bringing up the M name in comparison, I just went off my nutter, that is to say I went very cold, cutting and to the point. I mentioned what I, as a doctor thought of his diagnoses of Sherlock’s personality and if that carried over to his job, I didn’t hold out much faith on his professional opinion.

After that I walked out, expecting to have Lestrade follow me out to politely berate me for belittling a police officer. What I didn’t expect was to see Sherlock following right behind me, looking as though he’d love to put me on a pedestal in Trafalgar square. Looking back, I saw Lestrade waving me away, prepared to overlook my indiscretion. As we walked to the curb, Sherlock automagically summoning a passing Taxi (that I swear wasn’t there seconds ago) I comment that wasn’t there still information at the scene he hadn’t gotten? To this he just scoffed “John. You know how quick I am, I have all I needed. You, especially during that last, flicked the switch to the answer. I told George...”

“greg” I cough under my breath

“…Lestrade that I’ll text him the murderer with all he needs to convict when I get home” I start to relax into my seat when he continues on abruptly “John, why are you not always this way? People would be a lot easier to deal with if you always used your Captain’s voice.”

I could only shake my head and sigh “there can’t be two of us Sherlock, the Met would never call us, and someone has to smooth the feathers. Now let’s get dinner and spend the rest of the evening at home watching bad TV”

 

The sight of the chinese store around the corner put a hold on all conversations, to which I was glad of.


	3. Castle of Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never ever felt it like that moment before.

_3\. I never ever felt it like that moment before. He's an assassin, he's melting steel in my heart...But I long for more._

 

It was after the pool, after the Scandal as I called it in the blog that I realised Sherlock was not just a friend, just a flatmate, he was ‘more’.

I can’t say that I was physically attracted to him, true he is good looking with his bloody thin figure and coat, I’d have to be blind not to see that, but I’m not a guy type. But there is something about him that has captured my attention, has captured my time and my heart. I never thought I’d be happy to live with a guy and imagine getting old together, which is what I have found myself doing on occasion recently. I mentioned it to Harry and once to Molly when she brought it up (perceptive girl that she can be, with two larger-than-life exceptions) they both called it heterosexual life partners. Well Harry just laughed and called me Bi, Molly was  the one who brought up that piece of cultural naming.

Weeks later, after mulling over this information, and generally believing Denial IS a river in Egypt, I had a dream about an old house and bees. The next day, Sherlock in his perching wake-up manoeuvre brought up a question of a murder, Sussex and the possibility of payment. Little did I know that that payment was a cottage in Sussex, true the one from the murder, but a house none the less.

I did exclaim how were we to pay for two accommodations, but Sherlock shrugged it off and claimed trust fund, end of the matter.

When Mycroft’s assistant came around with the deed papers the next week, I explained over the fact that my name was in part with Sherlock’s on the lease. To which earned me another shrug (this is becoming a habit) “Obvious, you’re part of the partnership that earned it, it’s half yours”

 

It seems like Sherlock was ahead of me; even with his aversion to sentiment; on this issue.


	4. Chapter 4

 

  1. _He said: A fallen angel takes it but he'll never let go_  




I was lying on the ground, not sure where I was, the only thing I knew was that Sherlock was leaning over me. It sounded like he was freaking out, muttering in a way I’ve only heard during nightmares. It was then I heard it “john, stay with me, please stay with me” I’ve so very rarely heard the word please come out of his mouth that this seemed to wake me up slightly, enough to groan as I moved and realised why all the confuffle: I was bleeding out. Blood was covering my leg, ground and Sherlock all from a slice through my thigh, likely the femoral artery if the blood and cold creeping up on me is to be believed. Facts then pile up like snow in my mind – in a hut in the forest, likely no signal, more than ten minutes till an ambulance could get here, too much blood lost. Damn.

“Sherlock," cough "get out of here. No sense putting yourself in danger while I won’t survive.” heavy breath “MOVE”.

He just shook his head, nodding to the side of the hut. I glance around in pain and see what I had missed: that the person I was worried was still on the loose had her own knife in her. “You saved me. Again, John. I can’t…I can’t leave you.”  
“But Sherlock”

“John, I may be the side of the angels, but I am not one. I will not leave you, nor will YOU die.”

As my eyes started to close slowly, a bright light followed by utter darkness showed behind my lids. There was pain, lots of pain then the oddest feeling of soft feathers.

I woke up in a hospital bed to the doctors announcing to my audience that the knife luckily missed my artery and that in a day I would be good to go home. I glanced around blearily to see Sherlock in a plastic chair beside my bed and Mycroft at the door, looking all the world like a guard dog.

“Sleep John, Relax, I’ll be here when you wake” muttered Sherlock in the softest voice I’d ever heard from him. “We’ve got a case, but it’ll wait till you’re up”

I fell back under with the last thought *But I bled out…what did you do Sherlock?*


	5. Black, utter, unnatural black.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He always did it and he always will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Photo of Sherlock on the ground, Supernatural-death wings superimposed over the top.  
> If anyone knows the link to the pic, please tel me and I'll link to them.

_5\. And then he...He always did it and he always will. He'll stay that hunter._

 

It was only after the fall at his funeral did I think back on that night in the woods. Of the oddities that had happened and the vague sense of knowledge that was on the tip of my tongue.

I knew I had to go back to the scene of the fall, there was something missing. After days of misery, I trekked to Barts and stole inside. The roof was my destination and it was there amidst the tears that I realised something I think Sherlock had been hinting at for a long while.

There, on the edge of a piece of concrete, was a smudge of black, utter, unnatural black. I read the crime reports when Mycroft left them in the flat accidently. This should be where Moriarty (how his name boils the blood) shot himself.

Acting on a hunch, I walked over to the edge of the building and looked. Down the way he fell and saw an oddity I couldn’t believe at first on the concrete – the faint outlines of very large grey wings spread approximately from the location of where his body had been, wings that could only be seen from such a distance.

The freight train rolled in but settled amidst the rubble of my broken body quickly. Sherlock wasn’t human. He wasn’t an angel, he made utter certain of that, but he also wasn’t man. 

Revelation that this was, it woke a section that had been dormant, ever since Afghanistan, even the Cabbie barely brought it to the fore. Sherlock was alive, Sherlock was on the hunt and he did not have his hunting partner.

The way home was full of plans on who might be targeted and ways to cure that affliction. Once completed my hunt would begin.  Because I know who else survived and who Sherlock would be chasing. A human hunting fallen angels, who would’ve thought that would happen.

**Author's Note:**

> Story Prompt: Fallen Angel - Alphaville


End file.
